


Of Gold and Ivory

by deliarium



Category: Emily of New Moon - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliarium/pseuds/deliarium
Summary: “Honey, what’s the use of disapproving a thing that was foreordained?”Or, the story behind the scandalous engagement of Ilse Burnley to Perry Miller of Stovepipe Town.





	Of Gold and Ivory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tequila_Mockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tequila_Mockingbird/gifts).



“You goose. It wasn’t Teddy at all. Do you think Ilse would have _you_ as groomsman—when she hoped for years you would be the groom?”

The fateful words had been flung out and detonated, and it took Perry Miller—he who had just been praised by his office superiors the other day for his precocious, quick-thinking legal acumen—at least a minute to process their incredible significance. Emily had immediately clasped a hand to her mouth, looking horrified; it was then that he knew that she must have unintentionally broken a sacred, sisterly confidence of Ilse’s.

Dear Emily! He _had_ loved her once—part of him always would, perhaps. (One never quite entirely got over the blush of one’s first love.) After many years he had finally accepted the impossibility of her ever returning his affections—it was obvious from the way she veritably glowed around Teddy Kent, who had always been too darn oblivious to know a good thing when he had it within his clutches. Though in the timeless garden of New Moon, awash with pearly moonlight, it was rather difficult to ignore how bewitching she was with those downturned eyelashes and large purplish-grey eyes, looking just like a—like a—

Well, he had never been any great hand at metaphors. Maybe that was why Ilse had always raged at him for attempting poetry, back in their Shrewsbury days. 

Ilse fancying him, indeed!

And yet as he drove home in the grey twilight, the ethereal fragrance of pines and orchids drifting past and his mind still reeling from the night’s revelations, Perry continued mulling it over. Ilse and Emily were of course both sterling women, as salt of the earth as they came. Something about Emily’s silvery mystery and intense, poetic soul had captivated him immediately in his youth, closing himself off to consideration of any other prospects. Yet it was undeniable that Ilse had her own vivacious charms; from what he’d only ever considered a perspective of professional envy, he’d always admired the unapologetic, effortless way she took up space and commanded attention in any social arena, a manner he must have unconsciously tried to emulate in his beginning days of practicing law. He still owed Ilse an enormous debt for how she had seen him through with his own ambitions, though he’d been too bullheaded—and infatuated with one Emily Byrd Starr—to fully appreciate it at the time. It had never occurred to him that she had ever viewed him with anything more than the grudging tolerance one might have for a clever yet frequently misbehaving pup, and that was on good days.

On one of his rare breaks from work Perry had once managed to catch one of Ilse’s concerts in town, during which she had recited a monologue from _Medea_ , her voice deep and magnificent, every husky word writhing with a mother’s bone-deep pain and blistering, womanly defiance. As the applause thundered around the theatre she had stood gazing around, her cheeks incandescent with triumph, and he’d had the sudden fancy that her smile had lingered on _him_ , sitting in one of the front rows, for the briefest of moments. An impossible thought—or so he’d chided himself at the time. He remembered, too, the way her eyes blazed with diamond fury while she had been delivering a speech during a public event for women’s suffrage in P.E.I., the way she had skillfully swept the crowd into an impassioned frenzy. He and Teddy had both been in attendance that day; towards the end Perry had turned to him and murmured, “Incredible, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Teddy had responded, with a somewhat pensive air. “Yes, she certainly is.” Two months later, he would write to Perry with the news that he and Ilse were engaged to be married in the summertime.

It was just as well that he didn’t know until now, Perry thought, smothering a sigh. Even if there could have ever been—anything—between them, Ilse Burnley was meant to be the wife of a truly great man, not some upstart former hired boy from Stovepipe Town.

***

He had intended to pay a surprise evening visit at the Burnley residence to deliver his felicitations to the betrothed couple, on the eve of their wedding day. On his drive over, while still formulating what he planned to say, he had caught the bride-to-be striding alone down the lane with her head held up high, looking impossibly lovely in a jauntily angled yellow hat and an outrageously cut silk dress that would have sent the heads of the New Moon Murrays spinning. He supposed it must be the latest trend in Montreal. Perry still had very little concept of women’s fashion, but Ilse always managed to look spectacular in whatever outlandish garment she wore.

“Care for a midnight spin with your old chum?” he asked, pulling up beside her with a toothy grin.

Ilse threw a mockingly scornful glance at him over her shoulder. “Teddy rather had me believing that they had you chained to your desk in Charlottetown, drowning in contracts and court briefs.”

“They do let me out of captivity sometimes, for important life events and such. Anyway, I’d hate to ever be too busy for _you_ , Ilse Burnley. Or should I start practicing saying ‘Ilse Kent’?”

Ilse grimaced. “Don’t you _dare_ call me that, Perry Miller, or I swear I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to the squirrels. Are you going to let me in or not?”

During the course of the ride Ilse talked breezily of her plays and concert tours (which had received rather glowing reviews from a few noteworthy Canadian papers); her gay trawls throughout Europe with her theatre company; the parade of admiring, pre-Teddy (and a few post-Teddy) suitors whom Ilse one-by-one dismissed and castigated rather mercilessly; the latest developments in the women’s suffrage and social reform movements in Montreal (which Perry felt more at ease discussing than anything else, taking a keen interest in Canadian politics). She had evidently been keeping herself relentlessly busy ever since the announcement of her engagement. Perry, with thankfully learned restraint, did not press the matter. He was, after all, no stranger to working strenuous hours himself. He recounted to Ilse a brief overview of the recent homicide case he and his team had spent many sleepless nights poring over, the details of which were rather harrowing but which immediately fascinated Ilse, who had a theatrical taste for the macabre. It had been fiercely litigated from both sides for several weeks, and in the end Perry had managed to cinch the defense with a last-minute spark of inspiration, resulting ultimately in the release of an innocent (though rather unfortunate) man. During victory toasts Mr. Abel had hinted to him, with an almost paternal sort of pride, that he could very well expect to make partner in the near future, so long as he kept up the excellent work. Perry meant to climb even higher—he’d made up his mind that he would follow in the footsteps of his idol, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, and run for office one day.

“It’s all thanks to you, of course,” Perry said, casually. “If you hadn’t helped me with that debate back in Shrewsbury, Mr. Abel would never have paid a lowborn chap like me a second look, and we all know it.”

“You utter, hypocritical toad! Don’t think I’ve forgotten whom it was you decided to thank afterwards.” It had been some time since Perry had been on the receiving end of one of Ilse’s impressive glowers. He found that he’d rather missed it.

“Oh, well, I’ve grown up since then, haven’t I?” Perry replied, attempting the charming smile that had successfully won him many cases. Ilse did not succumb to it. “Honest, Ilse, I know I’ve made an awful donkey of myself all these years over—well, over a number of things. You’ve always been a great pal to me, constantly pushing me to improve myself—it was all more than I deserved.”

Ilse rolled her eyes, but she looked slightly mollified nonetheless. “Your elocution did use to be rather atrocious, didn’t it? I thought of it while I was watching that Shaw play back in London.”

They stopped at the edge of a sandstone cliff overlooking the moonlit dunes and the glistening stretch of ocean looming beyond, taking a moment to drink in the view. During the trip they’d never more than vaguely alluded to the topic of Ilse’s upcoming nuptials—Ilse had prohibited any serious discussion of the matter, threatening to throw herself out of the vehicle with impetuous Ilse-ness. The conversation soon turned to Emily’s debut novel, which they both had received advance copies of, and which they spoke of as rapturously as if it had been a newly discovered Austen or Brontë. Perry had not had time for reading much in the way of literature since his Shrewsbury days, but he had found himself so riveted by the saga of the Applegaths that he had stayed up all night reading, and was very nearly late to work the next day. Ilse proclaimed with effusive pride that Emily would one day be considered the next great Canadian author—and Teddy, she added, almost coolly, an equally great painter.

“Ah, but _you_ , Ilse, will someday be a world-renowned actress, turning your nose up at the _hoi polloi_ of your Blair Water youth,” Perry laughed.

“Don’t be such an ass,” Ilse scoffed, with a toss of her luminous golden curls. Her profile—with that long, milky column of neck extending down into narrow shoulders and the expansive swell of her bosom—was quite striking against the moonlight, suddenly forcing Perry to catch his breath; he swiftly reddened and turned his eyes away.

She continued, “People like you and I, Perry, can only hope of one day achieving things like fame, riches, prosperity—if we’re lucky. But people like Emily and Teddy—they have their sights set on higher summits. They dream of _immortality_.” She fell silent for a moment and looked away, frowning up towards the stars glimmering overhead. “Now as for me, I don’t give a damn about what the world thinks of my life beyond the grave. My greatest aspiration is to be happy, in the here and now.”

“And _are_ you happy, Ilse Burnley?” Perry could not help but ask, after a brief pause.

Ilse did not answer for some time. Then she said abruptly, “I’m getting chilly. Take me back, won’t you?”

Perry quietly obliged, putting the gear in. The conversation was rather stilted and desultory for the rest of the ride, until he dropped Ilse off at her home.

Ilse hesitated upon getting out, and then at last minute impulsively flung her arms around Perry’s neck and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Good night, darling.” And then she was gone—leaving behind only a trace of tangy, provocative fragrance. 

 _What a fool I’ve been all this time!_ Perry thought plaintively, as he drove away into the night.

***

It was the morning of her wedding day, and Ilse was rapidly falling to pieces.

Amid the frenzy of preparations over the past week she’d had scarcely a solitary moment to breathe, outside of an hour or two each evening with Teddy and that one moonlit drive with Perry (which she found herself dwelling on more often than she cared to admit). If she had to endure another well-meaning friend or family member congratulating her on her assured happiness she would scream—or howl. Emily, thank heavens, was the only one she could rely on not to gush on at length about what a _wonderful_ couple she and Teddy made. Darling, sensible Emily, who had stayed with her all night and held her hand while she was at her wits’ end, who hadn’t judged her for bursting into tears like a sentimental idiot that morning.

After finally extracting herself from the never-ending procession of relatives, Ilse escaped upstairs to arrange her hair and make-up and to put on her dress. Much to her relief Emily soon came in to aid her. They exchanged fond reminiscences about the bright salad days of their youth, and Ilse unsuccessfully implored her for details of the sequel to _The Moral of the Rose_ that Emily was in the early stages of drafting, and that she insisted on keeping maddeningly reserved about before its publication. All of this only half-succeeded in distracting Ilse from the turmoil of her thoughts, which were in another world entirely. (She would  _not_ think of Perry on this day, damn him and the insufferable way he managed to intrude into her head at odd moments.) 

Emily, of course, could not be fooled—the hazards of having a writer with exceptional observational prowess as a friend, she supposed. “Ilse dear, you’re trembling like a leaf. Whatever is the matter?”

Ilse forced a rigid-looking smile as she clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “Isn’t it funny—I’ve acted out so many parts before dozens of audiences around the world and was utterly cool as a cat before all of them. And yet here I am, suffering a beastly attack of nerves over what ought to be the happiest day of my life.”

“If it would help, I could find you another tea set to smash,” Emily replied gravely, as she continued to brush Ilse’s hair.

Ilse let out a bright, hollow peal of a laugh as she turned and threw her arms around her friend. “You’ve been an utter brick throughout all this, dearest. I don’t know how I should have gotten through this ghastly ordeal without you.”

“ _Is_ the prospect of marrying Teddy so terrifying?” Emily asked, sotto voce. “After all, you’ve known him since we were all children, running around and playing games in the Tansy Patch.”

“Oh, well, it isn’t really about dear Teddy at all. I’ve grown rather used to him, and I suppose that’s as close to burning, passionate romance as I’m apt to get in this day and age. At the very least you’ll never have to fear my turning Victorian.” Ilse sighed, idly adjusting the neckline of her dress in the mirror (which she delighted in being awfully low for Blair Water standards of propriety). “Still, it’s all been sinking in harder than usual the last few days—particularly when I’m lying awake at three o’clock in the morning. Can you just envision spending each waking day of the rest of your life with someone you don’t love—and could never love? I still can’t, most days.” 

“Well, I almost did—once.” There was a peculiar note in Emily’s voice just then. 

Ilse’s eyes widened. “Damn, I’d nearly forgotten. I wrote you such a frightful letter back then, didn’t I? Oh, I was heartily relieved for you—I never really thought you and Dean were quite right for each other—but at the time I was still cut up about— _you_ know. Do forgive me, honey. But I’ve never been as strong as you, a woman who can be entirely content with being ‘wedded to her art’—I can’t bear the thought of spending the rest of my days alone.” 

Emily laughed, gently touching her on the shoulder. “You’ll never be alone, Ilse. You are one of those irresistible creatures who can’t help but draw devoted followers into your orbit. Including, of course, yours truly.”

They were not to be left uninterrupted for long, as other members of the wedding party would intermittently whisk in and out of the room, inquiring about this or that, their voices edged with either increasing excitement or anxiousness as the fateful hour approached. Laura Murray came in to give her tearful blessings as they were putting the finishing touches on her veil.

At long last Ilse studied her finished appearance in the mirror. Her golden hair under the tulle veil was pulled back into an elegant knot, adorned with pearls and silk flowers, with a couple of stray ringlets falling out to frame her face. Her hands were clasping a bouquet of sweet-scented orchids Teddy had delivered to her that morning; from her ring finger Teddy's sapphire winked like a cold blue star. Emily, who was looking quite pretty in her taffeta bridesmaid’s gown, leaned down to circle her arms around Ilse’s neck and kiss her cheek.

“Ilse dear, don’t think me hopelessly Victorian if I say I hope you’ll be happy ‘ever after.’”

After Emily had managed to shoo the others out, Ilse took a deep breath as she stood and gazed around her childhood room for the last time. She remembered the long lonely days she had spent within its walls, before Emily and Perry and Teddy, when her father still ignored her existence and she had had no one. As a child she had always had a fervent itch to escape the borders of Blair Water, with all its stuffy, small-minded cranks and gossips, and see the world. And yet no matter how far she travelled, how much success she garnered, part of her would always feel deeply rooted here.

There was one last thing she had to do. She reached into the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out a small box, containing a tiny, heart-shaped enamel locket that her father had given her for her ”something old.” It had once belonged to her mother, whom she had never known. Ilse had been surprised to learn that he had kept it even through the times he’d despised her memory, when he had wrongly believed her to be unfaithful. But then, Burnleys had always been fiercely sentimental at heart.

She took it out and fastened the chain around her neck. _Mother, give me strength_ , she thought as she picked up the bouquet again and re-examined herself in the mirror, now an immaculate vision of a bride. 

Suddenly her thoughts were disrupted by the sounds of a small commotion brewing in the hallway. Aunt Ida had evidently arrived and was saying something in a rather urgent voice. Ilse only caught snatches through the open door. “That poor Perry Miller.....clever young chap.....killed in a motor collision about an hour ago.......”

The bouquet dropped out from her hands, spilling onto the floor. Ilse felt her face go white; she found that she suddenly could not breathe.

“Perry Miller killed. Good God, how horrible!”

Without waiting—without thinking—Ilse tossed off her veil, and flew.

***

The doctors and nurses had all told him that he had been lucky, once he had swum back into consciousness. Despite the severity of the collision, he’d only sustained some minor facial injuries, a concussion, and a fractured tibia; there had been a small degree of blood loss, but that was all. The chap who had driven into him had not been so fortunate. Perry had glimpsed his family hurrying past in the hallway, their faces grey and somber. 

He laid his horribly aching head back down on his pillow and stared dully at the ceiling. He would certainly miss the wedding—it might even be over by now. Somehow it almost came as a relief—for the past few nights various images of Ilse, her shining hair and her eyes dancing with laughter in the moonlight, had persisted in plaguing his dreams, filling him with a sense of both guilt and bitter regret. He would not have to stand and watch her get married to another man, with the sober knowledge that it could have easily been _him_ up there, if things had turned out differently. 

The nurse was finishing up changing the dressing on his wounds when the door suddenly burst open. Standing there in the doorway was none other than Ilse herself, gorgeously clad in full bridal attire. 

She was out of breath and flushed crimson as if she had just been sprinting down the hallway, her amber brown eyes wild and flashing, her golden, pearl-studded hair partially streaming out of its knot and coiling around her small face. She was clutching the train of her voluminous ivory dress in one hand as she stared straight at him, the air suddenly hushed and still, her expression shifting rapidly from convulsive panic to shock and then visible relief, as well as something else that was unmistakable. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Perry thought he surely must be dreaming again—or perhaps he had died in the crash after all, and was being brought to heaven. 

“Ilse?” he marveled, as she rushed across the room. She collapsed on top of him, the train of her dress pooling out in a white diaphanous mist at the bedside, and kissed him fiercely for a long, breathless moment.

“Leave us alone, damn you!” Ilse snarled when the nurse made a feeble protest. Then she turned back to Perry with a softening expression, her hand trembling as she reached to caress his bandaged face. “Perry. Perry, darling. I thought you were going to be dead.”

Perry cracked a smile, still feeling dazed. “I thought you were going to be married.”

She let out a small sob. “You _idiot_ —you blind, stubborn ass. I can never, never marry Teddy. You’ve always been the only one for me, honey—it should have been you all along.”

“Come here, dearest,” he said weakly, reaching for her. Ilse laughed through her tears as she leaned to kiss him again, and there was no need to say anything more, as if the years of silence and misunderstandings had suddenly been swept away, leaving behind the brilliant core of truth that had always burned between them both.


End file.
